


Five Bosoms Gene Hunt Wishes He'd Never Got Close To

by catwalksalone



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Character Study, Multi, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwalksalone/pseuds/catwalksalone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene's encounters with bosoms throughout his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Bosoms Gene Hunt Wishes He'd Never Got Close To

**Author's Note:**

> Written when I was blocked for a prompt from **kajcarter**. Gene Hunt is fun.

1\. Moston Primary School, Sports Day. Blazing hot. Gene's going to win the egg and spoon--he's been out practising with his brother every night. Got a swipe round the ear from his mam for breaking the eggs she was going to use for his dad's supper. So there he is, eyes nearly crossed with concentration and he's a good three foot ahead of Simon Parker, his closest rival. But his lace has come undone and he hasn't noticed and he stands on it and crashes to the ground, egg flying off into the cheering crowd. He lands hard, smacking his mouth on a stone hidden in the grass. He sits up, not crying, but bleeding. Bleeding a lot.

And then he finds himself squashed to a bosom. Not the bosom of Miss Lively, the beautiful teacher of J3, worse luck, but to Mrs Grimes' bosom. Mrs Grimes is a large lady and Gene's more worried that he won't make it out alive than the fact that he's bleeding all over her dress. There's no point struggling, he decides and relaxes into it. It's not entirely unpleasant, but there's something vaguely crumby going on. And a strange smell.

Gene doesn't think he'll ever think about egg sandwiches the same way again.

2\. Gene is fifteen and a raging ball of hormones. And spotty. Very, very spotty. Can't get anyone to give him the time of day. He's that desperate to get his end away that he asks out Janet Meadowcroft who has a lazy eye, teeth like tombstones and a brain like lukewarm cabbage soup. Her tits are her one redeeming feature. And she lets Gene touch them and a hell of a lot more. If he closes his eyes he can pretend she's Lana Turner. As long as she keeps her trap shut it works. But then she starts on about 'love' and 'boyfriend' and he finds he can't shake her. She's attached to his leg like a dog on heat. Six months it takes. Six months in which his spots clear up and he misses his chance with Barbara Mason. If he'd known what the future was going to bring, he would've waited. But no one ever knows what's going to happen in the future, do they?

3\. Gene screws Cartwright the first chance he gets. Catch 'em when they're new and vulnerable, that's his motto. He knows he shouldn't, he knows he's married but he's marking his territory. This station is _his_ and so is everyone in it. He doesn't call. She doesn't expect him to. There is never a repeat performance. When he sees her and Tyler sniffing around each other, testing the water like the pair of bloody poofs they are, he feels a twinge of something that a lesser man might call jealousy. He gets why Sam would want to go there, he flashes on milk-white breasts smooth as marble under his hand, but while that should make him feel the big man--Gene Hunt never gets sloppy seconds--it doesn't. Gene doesn't understand why. He wishes he'd never slept with Annie in the first place.

4\. Gene comes to to find himself wrapped in a strong pair of arms, head pressed against someone's chest. By rights, if someone's hugging him they should bloody well at least have a pair of soft tits for him to stick his head into but this chest is hard. Hard, with a heart beating like the express train to Leeds. His head is woozy from whatever bastard thing hit it--Gene's taking bets on a cricket bat--but clear enough to realise that he's being rocked and soothed and it's quite pleasant, actually. He knows who it is. He's a sodding detective and he'd recognise that smell anywhere, leather and soap and just the general _Samness_ of it all. He lets himself be held. He's going to regret this, of course he's going to regret this, but for now he lets the stream of words flow into his ears and pretends to be too out of it to notice the kiss that's dropped on his head. Sometimes tits just get in the way.

5\. It's a particularly bad bender. Not that there's really any such thing as a good bender, but this one is so bent it's creating one of those strange loop thingies that go on forever. Three days straight and when he wakes up he's in bed with some prossie's tit in his gob. He's barely got time to remember his name when there's a shout of 'POLICE!', the door comes crashing in and there's Sam, Ray and Chris waving their guns around while some plods look tough behind them. He sits up too fast and throws up all over the prossie who is too out of it to complain much. Ray is smirking, the irritating bastard. Chris is trying to explain about reports from the hotel manager about lewd behaviour at the same time as shooing the plods out of the door. Bless him, he'll make a good copper yet. And Sam. Sam is looking. Not staring. Just looking. And the disappointment in his eyes makes Gene so angry he wants to kill.

"Don't judge me, Sam," is all he says. Sam looks and turns away without a word. Gene waits until the room is clear and then smashes his fist into the wall. He doesn't pick up his empty hip flask on the way out.

* * *


End file.
